Blog #331                                July 13, 2023

 

Different times of my day are devoted to different things.  This morning was Honey-Time, that’s the time I devote to doing the little things for my wife that make her life easier and allow her more time to play canasta and look in the mirror.  Like accompanying her to the grocery store.  You can always find me about ¾ of an aisle behind the Princess of Usain Bolt, leaning on my cart, panting and trying to keep up.  To avoid the aggravation of waiting for me, she has developed a very accurate grocery-toss and can flip a box of cereal or a bag of marshmallows a good 25 feet with the accuracy of Steph Curry.  Nothing but net!  Now don’t get the idea that I’m a saint or anything like that.  I actually enjoy doing nice things for my wife. 

 

Then there was Poppy-Time.  As I am writing, it is July 11^th – 7/11 – free Slurpees at 7-Eleven.  Did you miss it?  So off I went with my grandchildren to 7-Eleven for the free yummies.  Poppy-Time, you see, is the time I devote to my grandchildren.  I love being with them.  While we were slurping, I asked each of them this question: “If you could pick going anywhere with anybody, where and who would it be?”  Here are their answers, word for word.  I swear.

 

17-year-old boy:  I want to go to the Bahamas with the cutest girl in my class.

13-year-old boy:  I want to go to the Galapagos with Poppy.  He’s my little scientist.

15-year-old Princess:  I want to go to the Mall with Poppy’s credit card.  She takes after Carol.

 

After all that was over, it was Michael-Time, my alone time, when I can write my letter to my daughters, read my book, pay the bills and try to find my cellphone which I know I left on the table but it’s not there.  Fredrik Backman (A Man Called Ove) said that nothing’s really lost until your wife says it is.  She found it in five seconds.  And, of course, Michael-Time is the time I set aside to write to you.  Hi there and welcome back.  I have a lot to tell you, but I’ve wasted so much time already.  I’ll talk fast.

 

I hope you are well and feeling loved and appreciated today.  There are many days when I do not feel that way at all.  Why?  Because I am a Jewish American White Male.  That makes me less popular than cholera.  First of all, 90% of the world’s inhabitants hate me because I’m Jewish.  50% of the them hate me because I’m American.  Another 50% hate me because I’m male.  And another 75% of people worldwide hate me because I’m white.  My math being as impeccable as it always is, that makes 265% of the world’s people who hate me, or, to be simpler, everyone on the planet hates me for two or more reasons.  And that’s not counting the people who hate my blog!

 

Wouldn’t that depress you?   I used to think I was bi-polar.  I think we all are to some extent.  But lately, I’m convinced I am octo-polar.  That’s a condition where at some point during each day you behave like every one of Snow White’s dwarfs.  Yes, I know octo means eight and there are only seven dwarfs, but Carol decided that, in the state I’m in, I should add another Grumpy.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  In time we hate that which we often fear (Antony and Cleopatra).  Nobody hates cats.  Cats don’t bark, don’t need to be taken for a walk, don’t smell and don’t eat your homework.  Cats are soft and pretty and very smart.  Some even write to you every week.  Purr.

 

I always have some miscellaneous stuff to share with you, and I have some room this week.  I was looking through some old letters and found one I wrote to President Bush back in 2006.  You know, Dubya, Donald Trump, Bill Clinton and I have something in common – we were all born in 1946.  Anyway, here’s what I wrote:

 

Dear Mr. President,

          The word is “nu-cle-ar”, not “nu-cu-lar” as you continue to say.  Didn’t you ever go to school?  You are the leader of this country.  I would expect that you could at least pronounce a common three-syllable word.  And what about your staff?  They must either be deathly afraid to correct you or are as ignorant as yourself.  How can your entire staff not know how to pronounce “nuclear”?  I am embarrassed for our great country that we chose to lead us some hillbilly clown who can’t speak the language properly.

 

Sincerely

Your friend Michael

PS: That’s “my-cull”, you nimrod, not “my-ca-ell”.

 

I never sent the letter, but I kept a copy and now I’m using it to introduce our Weekly Word, nimrod, which means an idiot or jerk.

 

I also found an old menu from the fancy restaurant where my granddaughter works in North Carolina, a lovely spot where the world’s exhibitionists flock as dazzled moths to lamplight.  I remember ordering the “Game Trio” special which consisted of portions of pheasant (which is a bird), gamecock (which is a bird) and kangaroo (which is a big-footed, floppy-eared, hopping gym-bag).  The gamecock was the best.  I’m not saying the taste of the kangaroo lingered on, but during the night I kept hitting my head on the ceiling.

 

Last week I talked about the death penalty and firing squads.  I know one thing for sure.  My wife, and any of her friends for that matter, will never have to worry about capital punishment.  You see, they would get to order a last meal and the jailers could only put up with so much of their mishigas before just telling them to get the Hell out and go home.

 

Now please, Mr. Warden, be nice

I only have changed tables twice

So don’t pull the trigger

Bring a wine glass that’s bigger

And water with lemon, no ice.

 

Oh-oh, I hear a voice.  It must be Honey-Time again.  Gotta go.  I know where my priorities lie.  Maybe I am a saint after all.  Keep yourself well, enjoy the warm weather and count your blessings.  I’ll be back next week.  “Yes, Honey, I’m coming.”  Gotta go.

 

Happy, Sleepy, Dopey, Doc, Grumpy, Bashful, Sneezy – and Grumpy                   Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com